


How Far We've Come

by Liron_aria



Category: Power Rangers Dino Charge
Genre: BEING AN IMMIGRANT IS HARD GUYS, Brief discussion of religion, Brief mention of condoms, Friendship, Gen, Guns, New Zealand slang, Night Terrors, WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS CHASE, fluff with a touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 09:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/pseuds/Liron_aria
Summary: There are some things that the Black and Gold Rangers have in common: some nights, Chase wakes up missing his mother and New Zealand so much itaches,and some nights nights, Ivan wakes up lost and cursing the darkness that took his home from him.It's a strange new world for both of them, but that doesn't mean they're in it alone.





	How Far We've Come

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC. THIS FIC, GUYS. What was supposed to be a fifty-ish word headcanon for a friend turned into a 5.7K+ WORD MONSTROSITY. I had to do. so. much. research, including some... _unconventional_ topics. Like the history of condoms.
> 
> I know y'all are _supposed_ to be teenagers because of the 'T' rating, but I'm sure there are under-12s who probably haven't had sex ed here as well. Condoms are mentioned, as well as a discussion on whether Ivan, from the 1200s, would know what they are.
> 
> I did the best I could with the New Zealand slang, including talking to an Australian who's been to NZ - which, admittedly, is not as good a resource as someone _from_ New Zealand, but I hope what I've had Chase say/think isn't too bad!

Chase wakes up sweating and terrified, feeling like he’s about to cry, _Mum where are you -_

 

He groans and rubs his forehead, because that was a bad one. He feels achy and sad, because he _misses_  his Mum, misses Chloe. Mason calls him a Mama’s Boy, and while Mason is a bloody shit most of the time, he’s not wrong.

 

Chase is the man of the house, after all, even if he left it all behind to save the world.

 

He throws off his sheets with a shudder; the sweat on his skin is starting to turn dry and clammy. Which, contrasted with the overwhelming heat in the air, makes for a truly miserable feeling.

 

He sees his roommate passed out on the living room couch as he passes to go to the bathroom, smelling like a distillery, and wrinkles his nose. He’s not sure he’s ever going to forgive America for its drinking age of _twenty-one,_  and his roommate’s ridiculous insistence of keeping all alcohol out of the apartment because he doesn’t want to be responsible for ‘ _underage drinking’_  when the alcohol in his bloodstream is probably plenty enough to fill up a chilly bin back home.

 

That’s not really how the law works in Connecticut - and Chase did check - but fine, whatever. He’ll survive.

 

He splashes water on his face, the cold waking him up. His roommate snorts loudly in his sleep, and he rolls his eyes.

 

Craigslist was a very poor life choice for a Kiwi, and he hopes the egg has a hangover for a _week._

 

He turns down the thermostat, but honestly, he doesn’t really want to stay here. He isn’t likely to get any sleep, either, not with his nightmare of screaming in the darkness for his Mom so fresh in his mind.

 

… To the base it is. Might as well get some training done.

 

He grabs his skateboard and a jumper, grumbling to himself about the weather. Amber Beach is unreasonably cold for this time of year. Unfortunately, with the timing of his move, he went from winter to early spring at home to a slightly colder spring – autumn, fall, whatever - back to winter, and now _maybe_  spring. He hasn’t felt good summer heat in absolute _ages._

 

Also, did he mention Amber Beach is a tiny town practically in the wops? Because it is. Christchurch is some 380,000 people strong - and he looked this up - while Amber Beach is… not. Apparently, it’s about 19,000 on a good day.

 

He might actually die.

 

He catches himself and rolls his eyes at his own dramatics. Amber Beach may be small and cold, but it’s not too bad a place to be. He can normally brush it off, he has a decent enough life here, and saving the world on a regular basis is more significant concern.

 

But… some days are just bad days, he supposes.

 

* * *

 

The lights in the base are all on, bright and blaring, and Kendall's slumped over her desk, chin resting on her palm. Her eyes are closed, but she’s lightly snoring and her free hand in still moving, as if she's writing something.

 

She's not, and the fact that she doesn't stir when he leans over her tells him that she's out cold for the night. He laughs lightly under his breath, because isn't it just _typical_  of Kendall to fall asleep working down here? He turns to fish out a blanket for her -

 

\- and nearly runs into Ivan.

 

Ivan blinks. "... Sir Chase?"

 

“Ivan, mate." Chase raises the blanket he's holding. "Just grabbing this for Kendall."

 

Ivan follows after him curiously, watching as Chase wraps the blanket around Kendall's shoulders. "Should we not rouse her?"

 

"Nah, she's nearly impossible to wake up when she's like this, and even if we managed it, she’d just be mad at us for _interrupting her work.”_

 

“… I see,” Ivan says, though Chase isn’t sure he does, actually. It’s a miracle Ivan’s adjusted to 21st century America so well; he has trouble even though he’s from another modern English-speaking country. 1200s Zandar, weren’t women expected to stay at home and pop out babies or something?

 

Eh, whatever. He stretches and twists, feeling his spine and joints pop in relief. “What about you, bro? Couldn’t sleep?”

 

“No,” Ivan admits, sitting down at the table, “I find my thoughts plagued with darkness, and…”

 

Chase winces. “Fury, eh?”

 

Ivan nods.

 

Chase sits down across from him, but what can he really say? 800 years of darkness, trapped inside a monster - his nightmares are nothing compared to that.

 

Doesn’t mean he won’t try. “That’s… That must have been awful. I can’t even imagine it.”

 

Ivan smiles faintly. “In some ways, that is a comfort. No one should have to go through my bondage under Fury."

 

Chase knows it probably makes him a bad person, but it takes everything he has in him not to comment on how kinky that sounds, and he deserves a bloody medal for it.

 

They fall silent, and Chase gets it - he doesn’t want to talk about his night terrors; why would he push Ivan to talk about his demons? He just wishes there was a way he could ease his teammate’s burden, get his mind off things.

 

Oh!

 

Chase claps his hands, straightening. “You know what we need? Shooting!”

 

Ivan’s eyebrows rise. “… Shooting?”

 

Chase nods, standing. “Yeah, there’s a range downstairs that's used for training. It’s great for working off -“ Chase makes a vague gesture. “-bad energy. It’ll great, promise.”

 

Ivan looks at him for a long moment, before nodding slowly. “Alright. Lead the way, Sir Chase."

 

* * *

 

Ivan follows Chase to a large room a deep level under the main room of their base. There are partitioned stalls running along one side, and a glass window showing another, smaller room. He places his hand on the wall beside the door, a green light glowing under it.

 

Ivan’s eyes widen at the hand scanner, and Chase explains, “Biometric scanner. Kendall doesn’t want anyone who’s not trained to use a firearm to be able to access them. _Ideally,_  you need a gun license, so she, Riley, and I are the only ones keyed in - though Riley never comes down here.”

 

“The others don’t have the skills?”

 

“Not naturally,” Chase says, leading him into the smaller room, gesturing at the black… devices, resting on the wall. “According to Keeper, the Power is what gives us the instincts and ability to shoot and fight - I tried it once with a sword. Dino Saber? Easy as. An actual sword? A monkey woulda done better."

 

Chase pulls a - firearm? - from the wall, looking it over. He seems to find it satisfactory, and turns back to Ivan.

 

“So,” Chase says, “Pick your poison.”

 

Ivan looks alarmed. “The weapons are poisoned?!”

 

Chase bites back a laugh and shakes his head. “Sorry, mate, just an expression. I meant - which do you want to shoot? Your Ranger weapon, or a real gun?”

 

Ivan looks at the black object in Chase’ hands warily. “I believe I will use the weapon I have the skills for, my Ptera Morpher.”

 

Chase shrugs easily. “Suit yourself. I’m feeling pistols for tonight. Kendall has a SIG that is a _beaut_ …"

 

Ivan summons his Ptera Morpher, watching as Chase collects a box and other gear. The Black Ranger raises them a little, saying, “Eye and ear protection. Ranger weapons are energy-based, so the kickback is different with less noise even though they’re much heavier, but modern tech hasn’t gotten there yet. If you need me, just tap my shoulder.”

 

And with that, Chase disappears into a booth.

 

* * *

 

Chase sets up his booth, covering his ears and setting the target back at 25 yards, good enough for a warm-up. He loads a fresh clip and raises his weapon, right hand first around the grip and left hand around it for support. Thumbs in a straight line, grip as high and tight as he can get it, shoulders low and forward.

 

He fires.

 

A smirk steals across his face as a hole appears dead-centre on the target.

 

Front sight. Trigger press. Follow through.

 

This is easy. This is calm.

 

Front sight. Trigger press. Follow through.

 

There’s something clean and pure about shooting, about a bullet flying true. His Mum doesn’t understand, but he gets in a zone where the only things that matter are himself, his pistol, and the target. He knows that’s why Kendall comes down here when she’s had a mare that day.

 

There’s adrenaline, too, and confidence when he’s shooting competitively. He’s bloody _good_  at what he does, and he’s not ashamed of it. Making a hard shot in the middle of battle gets his blood pumping, his mind clearing, and makes the next shot, the harder shot, even easier.

 

He draws the target back to himself, keen eyes examining his results. Centre-mass, wider grouping than he’d have liked. The SIG handles like a dream, but he’s still not fully used to using it. He should probably do a few more runs to increase his precision.

 

He leans back out of the booth to see how Ivan’s doing -

 

\- and winces sharply. Just at first glance, he can see so much wrong that he wants to cry inside.

 

Practically already _does._ There's no way he can let this stand.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, this is just hurtful,” Ivan hears Chase mutter, “That you can actually be successful like… that.”

 

Ivan turns to him with a furrowed brow. “Excuse me?”

 

“Your grip is awful,” Chase says bluntly, “And it is a miracle you haven’t broken your wrist or dislocated your thumb. Your stance is - actually, I don’t even want to think about that, because at this rate, you’re going to die.”

 

Ivan’s jaw dropped in outrage. “I’m as good a shot as you! _Better,_  even!”

 

“No, you’re a more _destructive_  shot than me.”

 

Chase ducks back into his booth and pulls out his target. “Look at this.”

 

Ivan scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “You only hit the target once.”

 

Chase rolls his eyes. “Look closer. See how it’s a large, _imperfect_ circle? That’s because _every single one_  of my bullets made it through virtually the same spot. Now look at your target.”

 

Ivan looks at his target, scorch marks and holes throughout the torso.

 

“You’re hitting decently centre-mass, which is fine, since Vivix are pretty large targets. If you have clear line of sight, you’re good to go. But the minute, the _minute,_  you have an obstruction, your target shrinks _dramatically,_  and with this kind of precision and accuracy, you’re buggered.

 

“Maybe you get in the air, create a clear path from the sky, but what happens when you drop back down? In the time it takes you to recover, you’re _vulnerable_ , and gravity isn’t going to stop you from dropping down in the middle of another Ranger’s weapon range.”

 

“That’s why we train,” Ivan snapped back, bristling with anger, “So that we learn to fight _around_ each other, instead of getting in each other’s way!”

 

Chase’s expression is hard and unforgiving in a way Ivan has never seen before. “You mean the training drills we haven’t done yet because you think you’re such a good shot?”

 

Defiance and righteous anger surges through Ivan, because who is Chase to tell him how good he is? Chase, who has never once taken things seriously, who turns everything into an act of humour? Ivan is a _Knight of Zandar,_  trained in the art of war and battle since he was but a child. His sword has tasted blood; he laid his life on the line every day for the Royal Line -

 

Ivan’s thoughts stop, his anger chilling. Chase is a Power Ranger, the _first_  Power Ranger of their team to start fighting. He has more experience in this fight, and he has never lorded it over them.

 

Ivan thinks of Chase's ease at handling his Dino Blade Blaster _and_ modern weapons. He’s reminded of his trainers, and feels chagrined - a true knight always strives to learn, to better his skills, and he forgot that.

 

“Teach me.”

 

Chase looks startled at Ivan’s response.

 

“Please,” Ivan continues, reminding himself that his teammate is not _obligated_  to pass on his skills, “’Tis a poor knight who does not seek to correct his weakness.”

 

Chase softens, smiling. “Sure. First thing - widen your stance; it gives you better support. Shoulders in front of your hips; you’ll be less likely to get knocked off your feet, and it mitigates the strain from the recoil…”

 

Ivan feels worse for his earlier anger, because Chase as a teacher is encouraging and patient. When he presses on Ivan’s wrist to alert him of the damage he’s doing to his tendons, it’s light, only enough to draw Ivan’s attention to it, and he assures him it’ll be healed overnight.

 

Ivan’s old Battlemaster would have cheerfully bruised him for getting it wrong in the first place.

 

“The best is if you can shoot with both hands on your blaster, non-dominant hand as support, but since we’re always moving, you won’t get that chance often. Keep your arm straight, but not locked - yeah, just like that - and for the love of God, do not do that stupid sideways thing from Tyler’s B-list Mafia movies. You will not hit _anything_ , and you’ll wreck every joint in your arm from strain.”

 

“I did wonder that,” Ivan replies wryly, “Why would they even portray such inaccuracy?”

 

“Who knows,” Chase huffs. “Maybe because it makes them look sk - cool. It _doesn’t._  And it’s _stupid.”_

 

Ivan laughs lightly, though a pang of loss shoots through him. His teammate sounds like the riding master he trained under, who took them to task for trying tricks on their horses before they’d even mastered a basic canter.

 

Chase continues to walk Ivan through his grip -  _“tight and as high as you can go, and tighter for single-handed shooting”_ \- how to increase his accuracy and precision -  _“Our Blasters do not come with conventional sights, which is quite frankly a terrible design choice, but I don’t control the Power”_ \- and a variety of other small adjustments that make shooting easier.

 

Some of it is easy - adjusting his stance to lower his shoulders - and some of it is difficult -  _“aim and squeeze slowly.” -_ but by the end of it, Ivan's paper target shows a smaller group of holes than when he started.

 

Chase grins at him sunnily. “Keep this up, and you might actually catch up to me!”

 

Ivan scoffs, but looks enviously over at the _one_  hole in Chase’s target. Chase laughs, dimples deepening beside his grin, and claps his friend on the shoulder. “I’ve been doing this a _long_  time, mate. And I’ve still got a ways to go - my trigger-pulling needs work; my gun still moves out of alignment after every shot."

 

Ivan stares at him for a long moment, then shakes his head with a smile. “’Tis heartening to see someone so devoted to their craft.”

 

And promptly lets out what feels like the largest yawn of his life.

 

He jerks, startled, and realises he feels… calm. Sated, even, with the tiredness that comes with a successful day of hard work. The shadows of his nightmares are far away.

 

Chase snickers. “Tired, eh? Most people think a gun does all the work, but your whole body gets into it. Come on, we should head back upstairs and get something to eat.”

 

* * *

 

“Grab me a shake, would you? Pink-and-white bottle.” Chase calls out as Ivan passes by the bases’ fridge. Ivan finds inside a lot of potions - ‘protein shakes’ and ‘energy drinks’ as they’re called, but what can they be _but_ potions?

 

“Chur, mate,” Chase murmurs when Ivan hands one over, keeping another for himself.

 

As Chase rapidly drinks his potion, Ivan asks, “Sir Chase… I may have done you an injustice. I never asked what brings _you_  to the base at this hour. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

 

Chase tenses, and Ivan is about to take back his words, when Chase sighs heavily. “I might as well tell you - I get night terrors when it gets too hot, and my roommate is - _awful_ , and turned the heat up in our apartment. I woke up terrified of losing my Mum, feeling absolutely terrible… and didn’t really want to go back to sleep. So I came here and figured I’d train.”

 

Ivan mulls over Chase’s words. His condition seems familiar - ah. “My people used to know that as demon attacks - possession by malevolent attacks often during first sleep. Or, in some cases, the punishment of God, but I can’t see that being the case _here_."

 

For some reason, Chase twitches. “There is… so much to unpack in that, that I’m just not - going to. Not tonight.”

 

Ivan hears Chase mutter under his breath, “Not bloody  _ever_  if I can help it."

 

Ivan tries to keep his expression even. There is much in this world he does not understand, that he _cannot_  understand without someone to teach him, yet he sometimes finds that his teammates will not.

 

Sometimes he makes even the most banal statement and the looks of horror, bewilderment, _amusement_ , tell him he has stepped wrong, but not _where._

 

“I understand.”

 

Chase’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, nah, that’s not fair to you. Uhh…"

 

Ivan’s feels a sliver of hope as he waits patiently.

 

Chase drums his fingers on the table, running a hand over his hair. “The short version is that Riley, Shelby, and Prince Philip are probably the only Rangers who believe in - your God. Kendall doesn’t believe in anything, and Tyler, Koda, and I… eh. Koda still thinks the Sun is a god who controls life, I think.” Chase shrugs. “I don’t think about any of that much, but my Dad’s people, the Maoris… they have some pretty strong beliefs. About souls, about the energy of the land. Tyler’s like that, too, but, y’know, different because of different continents.”

 

Chase looks so awkward while explaining that he might as well crawl out of his skin, and Ivan lets it go. “I see.”

 

He doesn’t, really, but Chase has given him what he can, and who is Ivan to call his teammates right or wrong? They fight beings from different _planets_ , the _stars_ , on a regular basis. Who’s to say they haven’t discovered new gods in his time away? Who’s to say they haven’t proven the _old_  gods, the ones the Northmen worshipped, to be _true?_

 

Ivan smiles faintly and inclines his head in a bow. “Forgive me. ’Tis unfair of me to ask this of you when I’ve never been much of a scholar myself.”

 

Chase brightens and grins. “Then we’ve got that in common!”

 

Ivan chuckles. “I always favoured the art of battle, myself. ’Tis why I chose to become a knight.”

 

Chase’s eyes widen. “Yeah? Don’t you have to start that when you’re, like, a kid?”

 

“Yes. I was eight when I left my home to join the other pages at the castles.”

 

Chase whistles. “When I was eight, all I cared about playing with my mates and convincing my Mum that I wouldn’t automatically die if she let me on a skateboard.”

 

Ivan tilts his head curiously, remembering an older puzzle. “Why is that? Sir Riley explained it as jousting without lances - or horses. What is the appeal?”

 

Ivan wants to as laugh as he sees Chase practically mentally planning his revenge on Riley.

 

The Black Ranger replies a touch tartly, “Of _course_  he did. I’m taking you skateboarding first thing in the morning; then you’ll understand.”

 

Ivan opens his mouth to respond, but then thinks better of it and smiles. “I look forward to it! ’Twill be a new experience.”

 

Chase grins. “That’s the spirit! Being an immigrant can be tough, but it’s not all bad.”

 

Ivan remembers one of Chase’s earlier comments. “You must miss your home a lot.”

 

“Every day,” Chase replies immediately. “For the longest time, it was just my Mum and me, you know? We didn’t adopt Chloe until a few years ago. And there’s pretty much no Kiwi presence here. West Coast, maybe, but out here, in a town as tiny as Amber Beach, none.” 

 

“Amber Beach is a sizeable town compared to what I’ve grown up with,” Ivan points out in amusement.

 

“Amber Beach is only nineteen thousand people,” Chase insists archly. “Christchurch, my hometown, is over three hundred and eighty-six thousand.”

 

Ivan’s jaw drops sharply. “I - I’ve never even _heard_  of so many people in one place! It must be _enormous.”_

“You know,” I’m not sure, Chases muses. “I’ve lived there my whole life, and it’s _nothing_  like Auckland, which is nearly two million people, or New York City, which is supposed to be eight and a half million.”

 

“Amazing,” Ivan says weakly, overwhelmed. “I can’t even imagine it."

 

Chase sighs wistfully. “It’s home. Out here can get lonely. I call as often as I can, but there’s nothing to actually _hold on_  to. Especially food. No snacks, no home-cooked food - Mum makes the _best_  tuatua with pasta, she always goes overboard with the paprika -“

 

Chase pauses. “How are you doing with spices, anyway? I know food back when you’re from was… bland. Koda had a time of it adjusting, too; Kendall made a separate diet for him.”

 

Ivan’s face lights up with awe. “’Tis a wonder, truly. I’d never even _tasted_  some of the flavours I have in the past weeks!”

 

Chase smiles in relief. “That’s great! I’ll see if I can’t get Mum to send me more food so you can get some variety.”

 

Ivan ducks his head sheepishly. “You don’t have to -“

 

“I didn’t have to help you shoot, either,” Chase dismisses dryly, “But I wanted to. Besides, I _always_  need more food.”

 

Ivan laughs. Another thought crosses his mind. “Does it help? The shooting and training?”

 

Chase nods. “Yeah. I used to do it all the time at home, even competitively, and being able to still practice here takes me back.”

 

Ivan understands; he hasn’t held a real sword in a long time, but there’s an itch in his arm for it. Perhaps...

 

Chase sits up, snapping his fingers. “Actually, that’s another new experience for you - how guns work!"

 

“I don’t really think I’m ready to delve into the magic inside a gun,” Ivan protests, “That has rarely even been a part of my life!"

 

“Nah, mate, it’s just physics - mechanics.” Chase makes a small moue of frustration, but continues, “Ranger weapons are different because they shoot out energy - though Keeper and Kendall won’t let me take one apart to see - but an actual gun is just simple motion - which you can get, easy as.”

 

Ivan looks at him dubiously, but Chase is already moving. “I’ll grab one real quick; you’ll see."

 

* * *

 

Chase returns with a black device - _gun,_  Ivan reminds himself - as well as a box and other tools.

 

“If I’m going to be stripping a gun, I may as well clean it,” Chase comments, “Some people say you only need to do it every few weeks, and others say after every time you fire it. I’m not that obsessive, but I practiced regularly for competitions so I’m definitely on the more frequent side. A clean gun shoots truest.”

 

“Naturally,” Ivan agrees, masking the fact that he’d understood about one word out of five in Chase’s explanation.

 

Chase is as good a teacher with the gun as he was downstairs in the shooting range. He disassembles the gun slowly and steadily, checking that Ivan understands what he’s doing at every turn.

 

Ivan is reasonably certain he’ll have forgotten a lot of it by this time tomorrow, but now, in the moment, it all makes sense. He understands the motion, the resistance, and it fills him with a sense of accomplishment, that he can grasp this one thing down to its basics in this world of sorcery and wonders he could never even have dreamed of.

 

Chase even wrangles open the small metal projectile that goes into his gun with a short knife he pulls out of seemingly nowhere to reveal some of its innards necessary for shooting.

 

“It reminds me of the fabled black powder used in the East,” Ivan remarks in wonder at the small pile on the table.

 

Chase makes a strangled noise. He mouths the phrase ‘fabled black pow-’ before pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Hang on, let me check something -“

 

He brightens, and turns his phone screen towards Ivan. “I knew I’d heard that phrase before! Gunpowder _is_  'black powder from the East.' Just better.”

 

Chase’s eyes widen sharply as he reads further. “Wait, you didn’t know what a _gun_  was?!”

 

“I just watched you shoot and take apart a gun,” Ivan replies blandly.

 

Chase waves him off. “No, before that. Because it says here that guns didn’t come to Europe until the mid-1300s, and you… left Zandar in the 1200s, right?”

 

“1213,” Ivan corrects softly, automatically. He then sighs. “No, Sir Chase, I did not.”

 

Chase stares. “… Right.” A shudder runs up his spine. “Aw, you should never have been in the firearms locker. We probably shouldn't tell Kendall that, or she might actually kill me.”

 

Ivan smirks. “I believe that is Ms. Morgan’s base state when you are around.”

 

Chase claps a hand over his heart, leaning back dramatically. “Ouch. I am _wounded,_  Ivan, _wounded!”_

 

“I think you'll survive."

 

Chase laughs.

 

Ivan absently flexes his hand, feeling an old itch rise up again. “When I was growing up, I, too, was required to know how to care for my weapon so extensively. I nearly burned myself when working with the blacksmith, come to think of it.”

 

Chase’s jaw drops in awe. “Whoa, you know how to make your own sword?!”

 

Ivan laughs sheepishly. “Make? Not anymore, no. ’Twas some fifteen years past. I was but ten; all pages and squires are required to participate in creating their own swords when they graduate from practice swords. It teaches us to respect our weapon, and the crafters who make them.”

 

Chase’s eyes are alight with wonder. “Still, that’s mean-as, mate!”

 

Ivan starts to smile in the face of Chase’s cheer, but he’s suddenly hit with a near-physical force of how much he _misses_  his home. He misses the fields and forests, his comrades in the Royal Guard, great stone buildings in the distance. Everything is so much closer here, so much brighter, so much _different -_ even the stars in the night sky. The changes may be slight to others, but to someone trained to navigate by their light, it’s clear.

 

“Ivan?!"

 

Ivan forces a smile, trying to assuage his teammate’s alarm. “Forgive me. ’Tis only a fit of melancholy.”

 

Chase’s expression softens with almost painful empathy. “Missing home is never ‘only’ something. Nothing to be ashamed of, mate."

 

Ivan sighs, staring down at his hands. “I just… It feels like I'm living in another world - not even another country, but another _reality_  altogether. A myth. You tell me the Earth is not flat, and when I look at a map, Zandar is so very _small._  What was once my entire world, my _life_ … so insignificant.”

 

Chase grabs Ivan’s hand, his grip warm and solid. “Hey. Don’t. Don’t you _ever_ say that, alright?” His gaze is fierce, and something in it won’t let Ivan look him anywhere _but_  in the eye. “ _You_  are not _insignificant._  Zandar may be small, but that doesn’t mean it’s insignificant - remind me to tell you about the Second World War at some point. It’s something to be proud of. _You_  are _someone_  to be proud of.”

 

Finally, the force of his words lessens and allows Ivan to avert his gaze.

 

Chase’ grip loosens, and he continues, “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.” His words are quiet, heartfelt. “I’m just from another English-speaking country in the _modern_  world, and it still throws me for a loop sometimes.”

 

Ivan looks sceptical. “Truly? You seem as… normal, American? as the others. Aside from your accent.”

 

Chase points at him in mock outrage. “ _That_  is an insult, but I’m going to let it pass, because you don’t know any better. For one, we Kiwis drive on the _right_ side of the road - that is, the left - and our steering wheels are on the other side, too - A car is just a box you get into that moves fast, to you, isn’t it?”

 

Ivan scoffs, looking at Chase dryly. “It might shock you, but we _did_  have covered carriages in my day. Better ones than Sir Tyler’s, in fact.”

 

Chase snickers. “Don’t ever let him hear you say that.”

 

Ivan shares a conspiratorial smirk with him and continues, “I may not be able to _see_  the horses, and the speed may be a marvel, but the principle is similar enough.”

 

Chase considers the response for a moment, then shrugs. “Eh, that’s about what Riley knows about cars, too.”

 

Ivan’s eyebrows rise in disbelief. “Sir Riley? Whose sorcery is akin to Ms. Kendall’s?"

 

Chase waves dismissively. “Riley’s good with logic and puzzles, but - and Tyler can back me up on this - cars are beyond him.”

 

Ivan thinks the Green Ranger will have a much different opinion on that.

 

“Anyway, back to the point - Americans are _weird._  Their English is wrong - the rest of the English-speaking world is with me on this.” His voice shifted to a grumble. " _Why_  they would decide ’rubber’ is a condom is _beyond me.”_

Ivan’s brow furrows slightly, and Chase pauses. “You have no idea what either of those things are, do you?”

 

“No.”

 

“… Awkward.” Chase fidgets, then stands and walks to Kendall’s desk, returning with a pencil. He tapped the pink eraser at the top. “Riley told you this was an eraser, yeah?”

 

Ivan nods.

 

“Well, the rest of the world also calls it a rubber, because it used to be made _from rubber._ ” Chase rolls his eyes.  _“Americans_  decided it’d be a good word for - male contraceptive. Which is a conversation for another time, from better people than me.”

 

Ivan raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “You realise that my people _did_  copulate, both to conceive and for pleasure?”

 

“… I did not, but good to know.”

 

It’s Ivan’s turn to roll his eyes, but Chase laughs easily with him.

 

The New Zealander continues, “I think the worst for me though - back home, when you want to say something is easy, you’ll say ‘it’s a piece of piss.’ The first time I said that here, people looked at me like I’d murdered their mother, father, and family dog."

 

“I imagine they did not expect you to reference urine quite so casually,” Ivan replies dryly.

 

“Then maybe they shouldn’t have named a tourist purse after a woman’s private parts.”

 

Ivan practically chokes on his tongue, sputtering and staring incredulously. “Wh-what?”

 

Chase makes an eloquent face. “Mm- _hmm._  Don’t worry, I won’t tell you what the word is, because I’m a _normal human being,_  but Americans don’t really have any room to talk.”

 

Ivan shakes his head. “I truly dread to see how my language has changed.”

 

“… Could always go home.”

 

Ivan tenses.

 

Chase looks at him carefully. “You don’t want to?”

 

“I… don’t think I should,” Ivan admits slowly.

 

Chase frowns. “Why? Prince Philip would be happy to have you back for a visit, I think, and no one on the team would hold it against you to go home.”

 

Ivan jerks his head in the negative. His hands automatically clench into fists as he forces out the words of one of his secret fears. “’Tis not so simple. I fear that if I return to Zandar… I will not have the strength to return.”

 

“… Ah.”

 

Chase’s voice is soft and compassionate. “It’s alright, mate. That part, I know what it’s like. Sometimes… You just _miss home._ Did you know the stars in the sky here aren’t the ones I grew up with?”

 

Ivan looked at him in surprise. “What?”

 

“Yeah.” A tinge of sadness passed through Chase’s eyes. “Some are the same, because the Earth goes in a circle around the Sun; we just have them during different seasons. But North and South don’t change positions, so we can’t all see the same stars - the planet’s in the way. There’s a constellation called the Southern Cross that’s on our flag, but… not when I look up. Not anymore.”

 

Then Chase brightens, eyes alight with excitement. “But! I got to see Polaris and the Big Dipper for the first time in my life, and none of my mates have, which is _sweet-as."_

 

Chase’s cheer is infection, and Ivan finds himself smiling as well. “I feel I understand you more, Sir Chase,” he comments, “Your heart aches as mine, but you use laughter to hide your pain.”

 

“Mmm… I wouldn’t say hide,” Chase muses, absently twirling the pencil, “Hiding pain never does anyone any good, because it’ll just find its way out in the worst way. But laughter…” He sets the pencil back down and looks at Ivan, eyes warm and dimples showing. “Laughter has a way of easing it, don’t you think?”

 

It’s then that Kendall starts to wake, and Chase turns around with a bright smile.

 

“Ken -“

 

“It’s Ms. Morgan,” Kendall warns blearily and by rote.

 

Chase smiles winsomely. “Exactly what I was going to say.”

 

Kendall rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sends Chase a half-hearted glare.

 

Chase ignores it glibly, and makes his way back to her desk. “Say, Ms. Morgan -"

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” Chase protests.

 

Kendall gives him a Look. “You may not take apart your blaster to see if it is structurally similar to a normal gun.”

 

“I wasn’t going to ask that!”

 

Ivan bites back a snicker and mouths to Kendall, _“Yes, he was."_

 

Chase absolutely does not pout; he will deny it to the end of his days.

 

Kendall eyes him warily as he leans against the desk, carefully avoiding her experiments. “So, Ivan and I were talking,” Chase continues cheerfully, “And _did you_  know -"

 

“That Ivan is twenty-five?” Kendall finishes for him, voice as dry as the desert, “Yes. If he would like to go out to a bar and test the difference between ale and modern beer, he may. You, _still may not._ ”

 

“Aw, but _Ms. Morgaaaaaaan!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> How does Kendall already know what Chase is going to ask? Who knows. She's magic.
> 
> I've used Rocky Hill, CT, as my model for Amber Beach.
> 
> For the record, Ivan would _not_ know what condoms are, or have any reference for them, because while condoms existed in Late Antiquity and Early/High Middle Ages, they disappeared for a couple hundred years after that, only reappearing in the mid-1500s. I couldn't find any info on contraceptive use in 12th and 13th century Europe, but the Indians and Chinese at the same time were using herbal remedies, so that's what I've used for Zandar as well. It's not like this show even believes in geography.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!


End file.
